


The Adrenaline

by mktellstales



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/M, I'm a little rusty, M/M, MI-5 - Freeform, part of something bigger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 01:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6931948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mktellstales/pseuds/mktellstales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there’s a line that divides wrong from right, John Watson has spent most of his life in the grey space between the two. <br/>But he’s trying to change.</p><p>John has left a world behind him, but as hard as he tries to live in the one he's set before him, the past won't leave him alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Author's Note

It has been quite a while since I've written something to be even remotely proud of, and even longer since I've posted something. That pesky thing called life kept getting in my way, and my notebooks were filled with started and stopped stories, but I was determined to finish this one.

I really love the idea of this one, and I think it could be just a snapshot of something that could turn into an even bigger ( and better) piece once I have the time and the focus.

 

I hope you enjoy it though- and be gentle, I'm a bit rusty!

 

Love,

Mk


	2. Chapter 2

If there’s a line that divides wrong from right, John Watson has spent most of his life in the grey space between the two. 

But he’s trying to change.

He lives in a flat that welcomes the day with bright eagerness rather than dust and dim, and sometimes the thin curtains of his bedroom window caress the soft skin of a beautiful woman in his bed while he makes tea in the kitchen. He only needs to remember one name, and it’s the one his parents intended him to have. His hair hasn’t changed colour in years, aside from the grey starting to peak around the edges, and his eyes are still blue every time he looks in the mirror.

He works hard and he works honestly, and at the end of the day he feels the way he thinks he should. So, he ignores how his fingers twitch for a trigger at the backfire of a car or the pop of a firework. He ignores the urge to hide in the shadows, the desire that creeps in for the taste of stale tea and cigarettes against his tongue, the tangle of sweat and sweet persimmons that used to dance along his nose. He ignores the aching reminder of his life gone by and the silent call that tries to draw him back in each night when he closes his eyes. 

Because John is going to live on the right of the divide. 

****

Relentless Sunday sun beats across lazy bodies in the bed that rests against the farthest wall of John’s bedroom. It’s been a hot, bright August, and, even as the days bleed into September, the pattern doesn’t seem ready to break. 

John’s eyes are closed against it and his fingers aimlessly twist around the fiery hair of his lover in his lap. She sighs, just as content with the day as he is, while her thumb grazes the ridge of his bent knee underneath her. 

“Do you believe in forever?” she asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Like this moment; once you and I break it, will it still exist somewhere, forever?”

“Maybe,” John answers. 

“Do you think all of our moments exist somewhere, waiting for us to come back to them?”

“I don’t know. Maybe,” he says again.

April sits up and turns around on her knees. John’s eyes open as her head blocks the warmth on his face. Her hair is long, and it falls absently over her breasts, bare and just as freckled as the rest of her curved body. Her pale, pink lips are curled down in a frown, and John can see where they're starting to crack from the heat. 

“What?” he asks.

“You’re not taking me seriously.”

John sighs, “I am.”

“Then give me a serious answer.”

He thinks about it for a moment, wanting to give her everything she asks of him, because she’s the only one who knows him this way.

“Yes,” he says, “I think our moments, and the people we experienced them with exist long after they are over and gone. Whether you want them to or not.”

April’s frown deepened at the sadness in his eyes; there were so many secrets behind them she knew she would never find out. 

“I’ll make some sandwiches,” she says and uncurls her legs to slide out of the bed, but John stops her and bundles her up in his lap. His fingers run down her naked silhouette and he kisses her mouth. There are too many moments John wants to wish out of existence, and maybe he can at least replace them with better ones, like this.

April’s shadow dances against the wall, her nails dig dip into his chest, and his name is tied around the edge of her tongue. 

She’ll never know everything about him; like how he got the scar on his left shoulder or the one on his right thigh. She’ll never know the sounds he makes when fighting against the pleasured feeling of silk binds around his wrists or how many languages he can bring her to her knees in, or how quickly he can kill her once she’s there. 

All she’s going to know about John is the way he loves the feel of her skin hot against his,  the way her laugh takes over the loudest room. How she dreams of dying her hair purple, hates the smell of coffee, and has never worn lipstick. He loves how making love is on her list of hobbies, and how she always burns the toast.

John grips her waist as she bends backwards, her palms pressed against his shins. Her chest heaves and John watches through his own orgasm as she tries to find her way back to herself.

The sun’s fallen below the window, but the heat hasn’t left. They kiss until they can’t breathe anymore, and April rolls away from him, out of the bed. 

“I’m going to grab a shower and head off,” she says, searching the room for the clothes discarded the night before, “I’m watching my nephew in the morning.”

He loves that she has a family she loves, that she calls her sister every day, and her parents every weekend. That her nephew colors her pictures and she frames them in her flat, and pins them to the wall of her cubicle at work. 

“Okay,” he says, and lies against the sheets a bit longer before he too gets out of the bed, and pulls on a clean pair of pants and a brown t-shirt. He smiles as he passes the bathroom, and hears her singing just underneath the sound of the shower. He pours himself a glass of cold water from the filtered pitcher in the fridge and brings it to sit with him on the sofa. His eyes close, just for a second, to stave off the sudden exhaustion that’s suddenly washed over him, and doesn’t even notice when April kisses him on the forehead before she leaves. 

He hates to sleep. He has no idea where anybody else’s memories live, but his are right behind his eyes, waiting for that moment of vulnerability. The good ones, the bad ones; it doesn’t matter - they hurt just the same. 

****

The lights in the bathroom create a haze, and John has a hard time adjusting to his reflection when he stumbles from the toilet to the sink to splash cold water against his face. Another nightmare; this one enough to make him sick. 

He shuts off the tap and pads down the hallway toward the kitchen for a glass of water to wash away the taste in his mouth, but with each step that creaks underneath his feet, he feels something wrong, like he isn’t alone when he should be. He changes course to the sitting room, running through the layout of everything in the room and what could be used as a weapon, but the thoughts quickly vanish when he sees the long shadow of an umbrella cast along the bare wood floor. 

“Christ,” he mutters under his breath and flicks on a small lamp that sits the bookshelf  to light a familiar man in a three piece suit sitting in one of his chairs.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

The man reaches into the small pocket of his waist coat, “ginger candy?” 

“No, And that isn’t why you’ve broken into my flat.” 

He laughs, “I hardly  _ broke in _ , John. A child could pick your lock”

John pushes the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger, “What is it you want, Mycroft?”

“A situation has been brought to my attention.”

“You should probably take care of it, then.”

“I’m trying to, but it seems I need your help.”

“You need my help, or _ he _ does?” 

Mycroft is quiet, and he tries to set his face expressionless, but it tells John all he needs to know without so much as a twitch of his lips.

“I thought so,” he says, “I’m done, remember? Done with you, your situations; your lies. And I’m sure as hell done with  _ him. _ ”

Mycroft looks at him a few more seconds, and rises from the chair, umbrella tucked neatly underneath his arm as he crosses the room to where John has opened the door for him to leave. 

“You can only fool yourself for so long,” he says, “You miss it; all of it.”

“Good day, Mycroft,” John says, and closes the door behind him.

John hits the back of his head against it, and slides down until he’s on the floor. He’s a strong man; he’s withstood physical pain and mental torture, but knowing that Mycroft is right, is the one thing that could break him. 

****

Days later, April wears her favorite green dress, the one that cuts across her knees and dips down deep into her chest. A bright diamond hangs in the hollow where her clavicles meet, and she’s smiling at John from across the table at the restaurant, but he’s only paying her half the attention she deserves. He know that _he’s_ there, watching from somewhere John can’t see him, just as he has been for weeks. He was expecting it after his visit from Mycroft, but he didn’t think it would last so long. He thought at some point, one of them would give up, or give in, but neither was ready to acquiesce the power they held over the other.  

John eats his dinner and drinks his wine; he laughs at April’s stories, holds her hand when she reaches for his across the table. He’s given up trying to find where  _ he _ is, but he still can't ignore his presence.

When they leave the restaurant, John catches a glimpse of his silhouette underneath the dimming lamp of the alley behind the restaurant. He puts April in the taxi they’ve called over and gives the cabbie 50 quid to stay put. He tries to kiss away April’s confusion, or at the very least kiss her into complacency while he promises to be right back and steps into the shadow where he’s decided to be the one to give in. 

“Sherlock,” he says. 

“Hello, John.” 

His voice is decadent; smooth and velvety like the inside of a new suit. Their eyes meet, and John holds strong, determined not to let himself fall into the changing, swirling abyss of gold and blue. 

“Finally decide to take matters into your own hands?”

“I never asked Mycroft to come see you.”

“No, I suppose you didn’t, but you must have done something to bring out the brother in him.” 

“Did he tell you?” Sherlock asks.

“No.”

“There’s an Englishman in Paris, who knows too much about too many people.”

“The kind of stuff he can’t keep living with?”

“The kind of knowledge that makes him a threat to everyone he’s come in contact with. Mycroft wants me to retrieve the information, preferably in a non-lethal manner.”

“Sounds pretty simple.”

“It is, but everything has been simpler with the two of us.”

John laughs and shakes his head, because nothing has ever been simple between the two of them. The work, maybe, but even that….He ought to tell him to ‘fuck off’ and walk away, but Sherlock is like a magnet, holding him in place with the weight of his beauty, and the mystery of his silence, so they stand with each other, and John watches his black-gloved fingers gently hold his cigarette, and effortlessly flick the ash away in the wind.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says after a long beat of silence.

John's fingers curl against his palm, and he lunges a step closer to Sherlock, 

“No,” he says. “Shut up.”

“John-”

“I said to shut up.”

He backs away from Sherlock - too close, too close -and shakes his head, too much heat coursing through his veins for him to say anymore. He turns on his heels. April is outside the taxi on the pavement looking for him, and John grabs her by the wrist to pull her back inside just as he can feel Sherlock five steps behind him.

The road underneath the tires and the light music of the cabbie’s radio is the only sound between the two of them before April decides John’s started breathing evenly enough for it to be safe for her to open her mouth.

“Who was that?”

“No one,” he answers her.

“Was it Sherlock?”

“How do you know that name?”

“You say it sometimes, in your sleep.”

He’s angry again, his breath erratic, and his fingers itching to grab something - to grab  _ his _ long, ivory throat and push until he can’t breathe.

“He doesn’t exist to me anymore,” John says in barely a breath. 

“Was he your lover?”

“April!”

“I’m sorry, John, but you have so many secrets, and I let you keep them, because we all deserve that much, but the way I’ve heard you call for him; heard you cry for him, it’s - it’s broken my heart.” 

John takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes, “Sherlock Holmes is just my past.”

“One of those bad memories that won’t go away?”

“Yes. No. They weren’t all bad. Not at the beginning.” 

April smiles, “the beginning is always the best.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s ended, it’s over.”

They’re quiet the rest of the way back to John’s flat, and John watches the city go by in a blur of lights. He’s seen so many places in this manner, but London is still the most beautiful. 

When they get upstairs, John turns from locking them inside to see April in the center of the room, the straps of her dress untied from behind her neck. John watches her slither out of the fabric like a snake changing its skin until she’s standing in just her white, lace knickers. 

She knows exactly what John needs in that moment, and he isn’t going to be foolish enough to argue otherwise. He slips out of his jacket and hangs it on the rack by the door. Starting to unbutton his shirt, he crosses the room, dragging an open palm along the width of her stomach as he does, to close the curtains to the living room. As he looks away from her for a moment, he sees Sherlock down on the pavement, not bothering to hide himself this time, and John thinks better of the curtains, only closing the sheer over-layer. 

He turns and holds out his hand for her to come to him, and when she does she undoes the rest of his buttons, pushes his shirt from his shoulders, undoes the buckle of his trousers He takes her chin between his fingers and brings their mouths together for a tooth filled kiss. He knows that Sherlock is still standing there, watching, and it reminds him of all the other times Sherlock watched - that night in Brussels, and the woman in Athens. 

John is walking the fine line between angry and turned on, and April can feel it in the way he bites at the sensitive skin of her neck, and bends her across the back of the chair that sits in front of the window, but she doesn’t say anything, because it’s the first time she’s felt anything real from him. 

When it’s finished, John kisses her gently before she leaves for the bathroom. John looks out the window to see Sherlock hasn’t moved, and gives him a self-satisfied smirk before closing the deep, blue curtains behind and joining April.

The shower together, and climb into the bed. John lies there, and watches until she falls asleep, then sneaks into a pair of jeans and a jumper, pulls his trainers on and goes outside.

“You’re pathetic,” he says, climbing down the steps to where Sherlock stands.

“And you’re petty.”

They both laugh, and the tension John’s been carrying around starts to ease for just a moment as he watches the lines curl up around the corners of Sherlock’s mouth, and that sparkle no one else seems to notice, flares in his eyes. 

“I hate Paris,” John says.

“You love it.”

“I have a girlfriend.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, “I noticed.”

“And, I’m angry with you.” 

“John, I didn’t-”

“No. No,” he says, more calm than earlier in the night, “I will help you, Sherlock, but we aren’t going to do this now.”

“I need to know I can trust you.”

“I walked in on you and my fiancee with guns drawn on each other, and I shot  _ her _ . It isn’t  _ my _ loyalty that should be questioned.” 

Sherlock regards him for a moment, “You’re right, John. You’re always right.” 

He flicks his cigarette to the ground and snuffs out the end with the toe of his shoe.

“I thought you’d quit smoking.”

“I got bored,” he says, and puts his hands in the pockets of his trousers, “Tomorrow night.”

“I’ll be there.” 

Sherlock nods and he’s the first to leave. John waits until he disappears down the row of pavement before he goes back inside, undresses and climbs back into bed with April. She stirs a little, but thankfully she doesn’t wake. 

John doesn’t sleep at all. 

****

“I just don't understand, you're going away?” 

“Yes.”

“To see your sister in New York? You told me you two don't get on.”

“We don't, but she's still my sister. She needs me.”

“Well, how long are you going to be gone?”

“I don't know.” 

“Can I reach you somewhere?” 

“I'll call when I get there and let you know.”

“I'm going to miss you.” 

John stops and turns to her and brushes a hair from her face. 

“I'll miss you too,” he says to her. 

He leaves her a key and takes a taxi to the airfield, pays the cabbie a little extra to forget how he got there. There's a small plane waiting on the equally small tarmac. John takes a moment to look at it, and takes in a stiffening breath. 

Sherlock and Mycroft are already on board, waiting for him. 

“I thought you might have changed your mind,” Mycroft says, handing him a small black bag for his inspection. 

John opens it and looks through the clothes packed for him, the clothes packed for the identity he’s meant to assume. 

“I said I would be here, and I am.” he pulls out a gun buried under the clothes, and shoves it against Mycroft’s chest, “won't be needing that, thank you.” 

Mycroft eyes the waistband of John's trousers, notices the gun placed delicately there. 

“Right,” he says then, “I suppose you're all set.”

“Actually, I do need one favor.”

“Yes?”

“I'll need to be able to call April. A number that shows American; New York.” 

“I'll have one waiting at the safe house.” 

Mycroft leaves and John takes a seat in one of the tan, leather seats. He buckles his belt, and looks over to Sherlock who's been staring at the screen of his mobile since John got on. He thinks to say something, but he doesn't know what, so instead he pulls out his own to go over the case file downloaded from the chip in the card slot. 

“Is it serious?” Sherlock’s voice suddenly cuts through, “This girlfriend of yours?”

“Could be,” John answers. 

“MMM,” Sherlock hums and brings his attention back to his screen.

“What does that mean?” 

“Doesn't mean anything. Just making conversation.”

“I prefer your silence.” 

“Yes, you were always eager to make me shut up.”

“You were always eager to give me a reason to.”

Sherlock smirks; he can't argue with that. 

The way John and Sherlock loved was impossible; one a burning candle and the other fanning the flame. Even when John was with her, they never burned out and she never asked they do. 

John doesn't know if that's because his love with her wasn't real or because she knew his and Sherlock’s could be. 

The plane lands in another abandoned air field and they load into the car waiting for them with Sherlock driving to the safe house. It’s just a hole in the wall, barely fit for a couple of rats, but then, they always were. They set their bags on the table in the center of the room to unpack their disguise. They only have three days before the party where they can get what it is they came for.

With tense backs to one another, they undress and redress. John turns once he's finished, and finds Sherlock tightening his belt. 

He wears a soft pink button down tucked into khaki colored trousers with white loafers and his wild curls, tamed back with a small bit of oil - it’s as if someone took a negative photograph of him and put it on display. 

“It needs something,” John says, and digs into his bag. 

He pulls out a pair of thin, black rimmed glasses and slips them over the bridge of Sherlock’s nose.

“There.”

“Thank you.”

John shrugs his shoulders and pulls closed the casual button of his white blazer. When they're ready, they lock up and catch a taxi to the other side of town where there's a small art gallery the sister of their target works at. 

“Are you sure you want to be the one to do this?” John asks, after they've stepped out of the taxi, and are approaching the door. 

Sherlock’s hand is already twisting the curled handle to the door, but John stops it with his own on top. 

“Do you think I can’t?” Sherlock asks.

“I didn’t say that.”

Sherlock smirks, “You doubt I can pull her.”

“I didn’t say that either.”

“Do you think you’re the one of us with any charm? I can be charming.”

“Of course you can. Though, I’m comforted to know, should you fail, we’ll have your cheekbones to fall back on.”

“My what? Nevermind,” he pushes John’s hand away and they go inside.

In the small space there’s a translucent table with pamphlets on information and a grand vase filled with roses. There’s not much to it, but the pale blue walls are elegantly lined with photographs, some black and white, others, color, of women; nude, in various mundane tasks. 

There’s two women at the small desk just by the entrance, and the darker haired of the two looks up and smiles; she's the one they've come for. 

“Bonjour,” she says walking toward them, her eyes and the line of her body focused on Sherlock. 

“Bonjour,” Sherlock says, “Est Anglais bien?”

“Of course,” she says, her accent just as posh and proper as his own, “how can I help you gentlemen?”

“I’ve just purchased a flat. My friend recommended your work to bring some life in. We made the trip to Paris just for it.”

“Oh, well, I’m flattered. You’ve bought from me?” she asks John.

“Yes. Your male collection last spring. I have prints 256 and 92 in my sitting room.”

Her eyebrow raises and she looks back at Sherlock, “What did you think of print 256 Mr-”

“Holmebrook,” he holds his hand out for her to take, “Dillon Holmebrook, and this is my friend Karl Anders.”

“Lovely to meet you. I’m Ellie, the artist.”

“And as for the print, it is fantastic, the shadow in 256 specifically, I find it to be haunting, but the subject matter, it isn’t exactly my area.” 

A flush crosses her face, “Well, feel free to browse the gallery and let me know if any of these find your attraction.” 

“I certainly will, Ellie.” 

He winks at her and it takes everything John has not to laugh, he barely turns in time to hide the eye roll he’s been holding back since they walked in there. 

“Maybe you should have come in alone,” he says to Sherlock, “you could have shagged her right here and gotten all the information we needed.”

“Sherlock smirks, “I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

“When’s the last time you even-”

“Prague, two months ago.”

“And not for a mission.”

“Baker Street. Two years ago.”

“Oh,” John says slowly as he realizes it was the last time he and Sherlock were together. 

“WHat about this one?” Sherlock asks, standing in front of a photograph of a red-headed woman draped across a small chair, a book in her hands, her legs crossed and a blanket across her lap.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. I’m giving it to Mycroft as a birthday present.”

“In that case, I think the woman frosting the cake over there is a good choice.”

“Oh, I missed that one.”

Sherlock flits past John like a hummingbird who's found a better flower to drink from, and he laughs. He watches him look it over and imagine right where he would put it - in Mycroft’s office no doubt, for the most childish impact - and walk back to Ellie to make the arrangements to have it sent to London. 

“If you’re still in Paris,” she says, handing Sherlock back the credit card in Dillon’s name, “there’s a party at my estate on Friday. I would love for you to come as my guest. The both of you.”

“I think we’re planning to depart on Thursday, but I would rather like to see you in your party gown,” Sherlock says.

“I think you mean to say  _ out _ of my party gown.”

“My apologies. You’re correct.”

Ellie blushes and Sherlock gives her a wink before he and John leave the gallery and round the corner until they’re out of sight.

“Still doubt me?” Sherlock asks.

“I don’t doubt you’ll be getting off on Friday.”

“If you do your job right, it won’t come to that.”

“Still confused as what to do with the female body?”

“I know exactly what to do with it. I would rather not have to.”

“I know, Sherlock.” 

They take a taxi back to the vicinity of the safe house, and stop for take away. They eat from the cartons in the dingy chairs, almost going out of their way not to talk to each other. 

When they've finished, John tosses the remains in the bin and turns on the tap to wash his hands. 

“I’m sorry,” he hears Sherlock say through the silence.

John’s eyes close, and he feels the anger again. 

“For what?” he asks, turning around. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you your fiancee was a double agent for the CIA.” 

“Is that all?” 

“You were meant to know, but Mycroft saw an opportunity in the way you got on. He thought the relationship would keep her fooled.”

“No one thought I could do that  _ and _ know what was going?”

“ Your ignorance bought us six months.”

“I’m glad to have been a service to my country.”

He pushes away from the counter and crosses to the window, open just enough to feel the late evening breeze across his face. 

“What is it that you’re really angry about John? That she wasn’t who you thought she was or that you didn't figure it out - that I was right when I told you  _ caring _ is a disadvantage?”

“I’m angry that you lied to me as easily as you’ve lied to everyone else!” he yells. 

“It was never easy.”

“You were my best friend, and every time we were together, it was a lie..”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that!”

“You’re looking for an apology, aren’t you? What you’ve been brooding about for?”

“Brooding? There’s the pot calling the kettle.”

Sherlock ignores him, and crosses the room. Their hearts beat erratic, their breath is short.. They look ravaged, and feel much the same. 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says again. His voice is low, and there’s an undeniable shake in the words, “for who Mary is, and for lying to you about it.” 

John is quiet for a moment and closes his eyes, “are you sorry for going to Serbia and dying without me?” he asks, when he finally opens them again. 

“How did you know about that?” 

“I was sent anonymous encrypted emails each day you were gone.”

“I was only dead for seven minutes.”

“But are you sorry?”

Sherlock looks up at him, “yes.”

There’s no hope for John anymore. The pain he’s been carrying around, the anger, the frustration; he has to let it go. 

“I forgive you,” he says.

Sherlock’s eyes shut, his shoulders relax and for a moment, John thinks he might cry, but then he quickly collects himself; cool and unaffected.

“We should get some rest,” he says and crosses back to the chair where he folds himself against the cushion like paper origami. John takes another minute and then slips into the bed, and turns out the lamp on the table. 

He’s exhausted, and has been for a long time. He closes his eyes to the dark, and listens to Sherlock as he shifts next to him, the leather of the chair groaning underneath his skin as he tries to find a position he can sleep in. 

John sighs, “Get in here,” he says, tossing back the covers on the empty side of the bed.

“I’m fine.” He shifts again and the pop of his shoulder echoes through the room.

“Sherlock, get in the damn bed.” 

He starts to protest again, but then uncurls himself and slides into the empty side. They struggle with the duvet for a moment and then seem to find comfort, but John can't sleep, staring at the slight rise and fall of Sherlock’s back next to him.

“Show them to me,” John says.

“What?”

“Your scars, I want to see them. I'll let you see mine.”

“I already know them all.” 

“Not the one from a misguided attempt at frying up eggplant a few months ago.”

Sherlock huffs out a small laugh, but stays still for what feels like a long while before he sits, back still to John, and pulls off his t-shirt.

He isn't prepared for how it hits him as he looks at the marred skin - the ugly criss cross of lashes left on his milky back. John reaches out with shaky hand to touch them, but he can't bring himself to as they blur under the tears in his eyes. 

“Turn,” he says, and Sherlock does without hesitation or word. John looks at his face first, at the broken expression, before he follows the line of his center to his chest where a knot of angry flesh sits just at his heart. 

John does reach out to touch that one, just barely ghosting his fingers over the scar. 

“God, Sherlock. I should have been there.”

“It's better that you weren't,” he says.

Sherlock reaches across the small space left between them, and places his hand over the fabric of John's shirt, just where it covers his own proof of death underneath.

The only thing John remembers of it was Sherlock’s face, and the comfort of it being the last thing he might have ever seen.

“I should have been there,” he repeats. 

They sit together in the dark, acknowledging the real scars, but still ignoring what's left of the invisible ones until their fingers fall away from each other and they lay back down in the darkness.

***

The party goes as expected, Sherlock dances with Ellie, laughs with her, and touches her in all the places that keep her, and more importantly her brother’s, attention everywhere but on John skulking around the empty rooms. 

It isn't until Sherlock is halfway up the staircase to her bedroom that John finds it; a small locked cupboard he has to pick. There’s several flash drives on a little table with a laptop and he checks five before he finds the one he’s looking for; streams of information on anyone he could possibly think of, secrets he imagines Mycroft isn't even privy to. 

He pockets the drive, and sends a text to Sherlock. He slips out from the house, and waits under the shadow of a tree.

“That went well,” Sherlock says, walking up to him and buttoning the cuffs of his shirt.

John quirks an eyebrow, “What are you referring to, exactly?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and walks away. John laughs, and jogs to catch up to Sherlock’s long legs. They're almost off the property, and John is sure no one saw him, so when a shout comes from behind them, it's unexpected.

They run, no real destination in mind, until they don’t hear anything behind them anymore and John suddenly feels his head slam against the cold, hard bricks of a back alley wall. 

Sherlock tastes like everything he's remembered, and he feels like he's never touched him before yet he knows exactly where to put his hands.. He kisses at his neck, stretched so tight that the tendons inside feel like they're going to snap. 

He can hardly breathe. It's the most right thing he's ever done, and he knew it was where they would end up, because it was always where they ended up. He wants to surrender everything, but he knows he can't. 

“Its the adrenaline, Sherlock,” he says through a stuttered moan, “it's always just been the adrenaline.”

John's wrists are pinned above his head, as Sherlock pushes tighter against him, and whispers in his ear.

“We are the adrenaline.” 

“fuck,” John says breathless and breaks free of Sherlock’s grip to latch at the curls at the back of his neck and bring their mouths together again. 

He needs, and he wants, and he's going to have.  

They rut together, seeking friction to ease the ache, only a minute more and John is sure they'll cum right there, panting into each other's mouth, but a persistent ring that started moments earlier breaks them apart. 

“What?” Sherlock answers, tearing the mobile from his pocket. 

“Yes, alright... I said, alright.” 

He hangs up and looks at John. His eyes are blown, cheeks ruddy and his lips swollen and red. John wants to pull him back in and finish the job, but he knows what the call was for. 

They collect themselves, and ignore the still burning embers in their bellies to find a cab to the airfield where the plane waits for them. 

There’s nothing said between the two as they sit in the relative darkness of the cabin. Sherlock has his eyes closed, but John doesn’t believe he’s asleep; he just has no idea what to say. And neither does John. 

When they land, John collects his things and follows Sherlock to the tarmac. There’s a black car waiting for them, but John decides it best he takes a taxi home, so he holds his hand out to Sherlock, who looks at it a moment before meeting the grasp.

“You were right, John,” Sherlock says.

“I was? What about?”

“The adrenaline. Clearly, it got the better of us.”

“Right. Emotions were high.” 

Sherlock holds out his hand, “thank you, for agreeing to come with me.” 

John stares at it for a moment, before accepting with a stiff shake, “you're welcome.”

“Goodbye, John.”

“Goodbye, Sherlock.”

***

John's drenched, and his chest is about to crack open, but he keeps pushing for just another mile, or however long it takes to get Sherlock out of his head. Yesterday it was three, today he's already passed four, but that damned lanky bastard is still there. 

He stops short and leans against a lamp post that's about to pop on with the setting of the sun. He's a ways from home, and doesn't have the energy to run back, so he turns and starts to walk. There's no distance he can go that will clear his mind. 

When he's finally home, after a stop at the shop for milk and biscuits, April is in the kitchen, stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce she started when John left.

He can’t remember the last time she wasn’t there.

When he’d gotten home from the mission three weeks earlier, the flat was empty, but there was evidence that April had been there while he was gone. The afghan he keeps draped over the back of the sofa was folded and left on the cushion of the chair, there were glasses in the sink he'd left clean, her makeup bag was in the bathroom and one of her nightgowns laid out on the made up bed. 

“Have a good run?” April asks, bringing a spoonful of sauce to her smiling lips.

“Yea.” He pulls down a glass and fills it from the tap. 

“There's still some time before I'll have dinner ready.”

“I'm going to shower.”

“Okay,” she says to him, smile still in place, but her voice faltering. 

John finishes the water and puts the glass in the sink. 

The spray of the shower is hot and welcoming against his sore muscles. He stands underneath it for a long time before finally washing up. 

He towels off and dresses and walks back to the kitchen to help April chop the vegetables.

Their knives hit the cutting board in unison, but John only feels disconnect. 

He starts to think about  _ him _ again. About Russia, and the first time he tasted copper on Sherlock’s lips. 

John's knife slips, and he catches a piece of skin underneath the blade.

“Are you okay?” April asks after he shouts and crosses to run the tap over his finger. 

“Yes,” he says. It wasn't as bad as it felt. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” 

“And... other than your finger; are you alright?”

“April, I'm fine!” He shouts, and wraps a tea towel around his finger to stop the little bit of blood, “I'm going for a run,” he says.

“Again?”

“Again.” 

His trainers are tight as he runs down the block, and his heart beats so fast. It's only two miles, but it feels like forever until he's stopped on the stoop in front of the gleaming black door.

He leaves it open behind him as he runs up the stairs. The top door is locked, and he doesn't have the key anymore, so he knocks frantically.

“Sherlock!;”

It takes forever for Sherlock to open the door, but then finally he's there, two days unshaven, dressing gown barely tied over pyjamas. 

“I was wrong,” John says.

“ Not surprising,” Sherlock says with a yawn, “what about?”

“The adrenaline.”

He closes the space between them and knocks the door closed with his foot before wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s neck, pulling him down to a kiss that stirs and quiets the fire raging inside of him all the same. 

They kiss their way to the sofa, and John knows that this is what has always been real; Sherlock’s ragged breath against his, long fingers curved into the dips and hollows of John’s body. 

It’s the shadowy gray place where nothing is right, but it can never be wrong. Not with _him_.


End file.
